


robbing of virtue

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Prose Poem, Rough Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's another decrescendo. The build-up to the downfall, one would call it. The descent into the darkness. William Graham cannot decipher the feeling, but the appraised psychiatrist is always one step ahead. Will Graham is beginning to lose himself more and more, and when Hannibal becomes his only consolation, things only begin to become more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only To The Winds

He had grown sallow from his insomnia. People attempted to understand his state, but they blundered about in ignorance. Maybe Will was the next Shrike? Maybe he was being thrown off the edge of sanity? They all whispered, and it wasn’t like he was oblivious to their taunts. He knew their fear, it wasn’t quite fresh and had lingered. Sometimes he felt the same way about himself. He dreaded the moment he turned. But most of the time, he was stoic. He did his job, well, and thought it was good enough. The occasional panic attacks would subside, and most of the time they did not happen in the presence of his peers. They happened in the presence of the only friends he knew, his dogs. They would comfort him more than any human would.

Maybe not Lecter. Maybe. Their talks lessened the occurrence of his anxiety. No matter how many talks they had, he wouldn’t be able to cure his social anxiety, but he almost felt more _normal_ : as if Doctor Lecter had been assimilating him into the world more and more with each conversation, guiding him to feeling comfortable and less like a complete outcast. In the span of a few weeks, he had started having dinner with Hannibal and a few guests, though the conversation was minimal and he wasn’t exactly delighted by them, he felt more regularly. He didn’t necessarily enjoy the company, but felt relieved that he didn’t feel completely resentful of their drab conversations.

Hannibal had helped him, with his endless supply of aphorisms and injunctions. But soon the teeth of time would snap down on him, and the truth would be revealed. He was not as he seemed, no, he was not at all.

 

Another body had been found, but this one was not in the same pattern as the others. The smell was likened to the pungent odor of rotting poultry, but with more flies and stomach-churning noxious gases. As Will glided past yellow tape and the parameter the cops had to establish, he was overcome with the desire to hurl. Decomposition had only begun to occur, but the fowl scent seemed to be radiating off the cadaver in plumes. He brought the sleeve of his shirt to his nose and mouth, shielding himself from the awful stench. Putrefaction was beginning, the initial decay passed, and the smell was beginning to become very obvious.

When he cast his gaze on this particular corpse, he hesitated momentarily. The body, a young female, looked waxwork-like, eyes open slightly, skin beginning to settle to this sickeningly pale tone. A deep red stain was beginning to settle at the nape of the victims neck and hairline, and rigor mortis was in full effect. She had kneeled down before she died, then fallen face-first onto the ground, the settling patterns told. 

She appeared mid-teens, with pristine skin and hair akin to ebony. Her naked body was still and untouched, it seemed picturesque. The only blood that was visible was the pooling under her abdomen, but no visible wounds were on display. It seemed the killers fascination was rooted in her  facial beauty, for her face was completely untouched, and despite the blood and decay. His passion for her was akin to a child with a butterfly in a jar. But he had not poked holes in the jars lid. 

  
She was found face down; her arms bent at the elbows and legs straight out. In her left hand was a copper-washed cross, with each finger on her hand broken around it. She had no traces of saliva or semen in or on her. She was as pure in life as she was in death. 

Beverly Katz debriefed Will on the situation, giving him a brief but detailed account of the victims life. Her name was Gemma Rasmunsen, she was known as a religious devotee, along with her family. She attended a private catholic school, kept to herself, maybe one day turned the wrong corner.

  
This was more meticulous than a simple alley-way crime, though. Will observed it closer, and when enough snapshots of the scene were took, they rolled her over. 

  
The smell intensified. The sight elicited several gasps from his colleagues, and her intensities spilled at Will’s feet. They were beginning to turn purple, the vermillion blood was touching the trills of shoelaces and lab coats and everything else.

Her eyes were wide open. The youth on her face was shocking, but there was a state of unrest laid on her facial features. Her eyebrows were not creased, but neither were they flat and relaxed. Blood stained her sullen lips, her hair, her chest. And just below, her excavated abdomen was torn so violently that her innards trailed out. This was a crime of passion, but was executed in a way that only a highly-sophisticated murderer could fulfill.

Will leaned forth, crouching to examine the oozing organs with his well-trained eyes. “Several lacerations to her kidneys — he was sloppy. Took her heart post-mortem, but the skin was filleted from her chest while alive; what is he telling us?” Will pauses, tilting his head as he scans her wounds, removing his sleeve from his mouth as his eyes narrow. 

“There are stabs to her lower abdomen, the uterus was stabbed twice... he wanted to rob her of her purity, he hated her for it. The ripper wouldn’t do this sort of work, it’s too.. Messy, not planned very well. But the missing organ..”

Will points to the cavity where the heart used to reside, torn open forcefully. “…It’s surgical precision,”

He paused a moment, his eyes veering to where Jack stood. “I think we may have someone who admires the ripper, someone younger, a.. a medical student or a nurse or...” William cannot think. He blanks, and his eyes hood. A rushing amount of thoughts begins to cascade in his mind, and he cannot think at all. He peers into the pools of blood before him, his reflection in the fresh red. Indecision coats his expression. The exhausted analyst withholds the end of that thought, knowing they have enough information for the moment.

 

He had risen to a standing position and turns to Jack a moment. He doesn’t say a word, merely shakes his head, and he is sure that Jack gets the picture. He cannot piece together a crime scene when he is fluctuating between these emotions. He cannot function properly. 

 

 

Will encounters the doctor that very evening, and he isn’t necessarily eager to spill his thoughts to doctor Lecter. He enters his abode, taking a moment to absorb the atmosphere of calm. A faint classical symphony rings, its source unknown. It is peaceful. William is not hesitant to embrace it. 

  
Hannibal is seated at his desk, shuffling through papers absently. There is a stoic air about the psychologist, who’s eyes were quickly drawn to Will as he saunters towards him. He regards him with a smile. 

  
He brandishes paraphernalia, including the case files and crime scene photos, among other things. “Something about this case, something feels...” Will’s eyebrows furrow. “..wrong. Different. I stormed off the scene, it was unnerving,” 

 

He raises a hand, sliding the files towards his esteemed psychiatrist.  When Will places the case documents on his desk, Hannibal’s hand ghosts over Will’s. Intimacy is the only word to describe this simple touch, though it is faint, it is there. Instantly, Will retracts his hand. But something stirs within him. He thinks it to be nothing, but soon this stir would blossom into a festering, open wound. 

 

“It couldn’t be the robbing of virtue, could it?” 


	2. Pang of Realization

There was a silence between the two, an infinitesimal pause as Will processed his question. The jagged lines of red, the entrails that had been so violently hacked from the adolescent’s frail frame. The life wasted, the innocence drained from an inexperienced body, so many things left untouched in her life. She would reach out to him in his quiet musing, she would be a reoccurring apparition. 

“She was a juvenile,” He responded, “Irreproachable with her ways, dutiful, bright.. and she died for what? A difference in..deities? A desire to manipulate? Petty things that could’ve been prevented, avoided.” 

There was blood on his hands, running through his fingers, splaying on the expensive and colorfully threaded rug in surges. This young girl, her life was torn from her at the fault of a simple hiccup in patrol. The police neglected that side of town. She was 

  
“The aforementioned guilt you feel, is it beginning to manifest itself again? Do you feel responsible for this crime as well, Will?” 

He had seen worse. Children with their tongues cut out, debauched families with bullet holes in each of their heads, women with smiles cut into their faces and asphyxiation marks on their necks. He grimaced, placing a hand over his eyes as he cleared his throat.  

“I can’t seem to shake the image of her in that oblique position with her body on the floor. She didn’t deserve it. She was unversed, and though her family was on the verge of fanatical with their beliefs, they never harmed anyone. Why take anything out on the youngest female of the family?”   
  
Her limbs were askew; the blood was networking around her lower and upper chest. He could just see the killer, waiting with bated breath for his discovery and getting pure delight out of the tabloid descriptions of him. Brutal. Violent. Meticulous. They glorified the slaughter of a young girl, they were kindling for the fire that scorched the insides of this murderer. They made him want more.

“To prevent her from being touched by the impurity in the world.”

Will glanced up. He interlocked eyes with Hannibal, searching.  

It was the first time he found doctor Lecter unclear.

The following days were littered with sporadic dreams, hallucinations, losing time, and confusion. Thoughts of hate and murder poisoned his mind, and they were peppered throughout the day in the more inopportune times. While he was pouring his coffee, he’d sometimes blank out, forget that he had been letting it pool all over his counter and had filled the mug will beyond its brim.

He would try to keep himself focused whilst in a working environment, but his mind would wander into darker places. He’d see bodies, suspended by their organs, and the smiling face of an unknown man, the creases in his eyebrows and around his lips all too familiar, but kept in a veil of swarthy dark that it kept him from knowing who exactly the face belonged to. He would feel the eyes boring into him, and just that feeling made him feel sickened. As if he was beginning to be infected by his sin.

The conversations with doctor Lecter grew more personal, the touches more prolonged and intimate. It wasn’t quite to the point of touches on the leg, but his hands would veer to his upper arm, occasionally his shoulder. They would hold long, intimate eye contact. They would speak for longer durations.

Will wouldn’t be able to understand what Lecter was implying until the feeling hit him smack in the face. He could not extend his empathy to Hannibal for some reason. He was beyond his grasp. For some reason, this thrilled him.

Time went by. Days. Maybe weeks. Everything seemed to slow, the media finally toned down on the killer who continuously preyed on women and ceased their warnings to young girls, and as everything plummeted back to a normal range, there was another spike.

A body had been found. Will was withheld a grand amount of information, but when he witnessed the body, he could understand why.

She was fresh, but the death was a result of shock and blood loss. He intended to bleed her out slowly, torture her until her nerves burned out. He almost looked away. He nearly did. But he forced himself to comply.

Her eyes were open, and they had a far-off sort of look to them. They were sightless abysses. He could not bear to make contact with them.

He shakily told them of the motives, the crime’s meaning, everything he was able to give, before leaving as quickly as his body would allow him. He could not recall how he ended up at Hannibal’s abode, but he knew it was him fleeing from the scene. He felt impulsive.

Everything was a rush. Time itself seemed to speed up and he felt sluggish. He felt as if he was lagging behind each moment. There was a short exchange of words between Hannibal and Will, but Will’s consciousness soon became fleeting. Their conversations were a flux of consonants and vowels, pouring endlessly from his lips with no control. He soon got to the point where he couldn’t fully form a sentence. Everything was spinning, spiraling just beyond his grasp, and before he knew it, he was gone.

The dark ocean ebbed. He awoke to the sound of untimely rustling and the soft sigh of emptiness. The light that danced over his eyelids prompted an irritated exhale. His eyes shot open, and as he adjusted to the light, he blinked away the evidence of sleep, shuffling around for his glasses.

When he was rewarded clarity from his lens after finally finding his glasses, Will scanned the room for any sign of life. Everything was unsettlingly calm, but the feeling was akin to the calm just before jumping off a seaside cliff. The descent would be peaceful, but one would always be met with the strong current and waves.

He cautiously stood from where he had been sleeping, untangling himself from a drab throw that he figured doctor Lecter had draped on him. He checked the clock, and it read to be half past 11. Between collages of pictures strewn across the refurbished mahogany desk, he found a note, scrawled on a loose-leaf paper.

‘ Something came up. I will be back around noon. You could stick around briefly or leave, but we should speak about the episode you had last night.

-          Hannibal Lecter ‘

 

There was a hesitation in his mind, but he chose to stay. He hoped it hadn’t been as catastrophic as he anticipated, but needless worrying would get him nowhere. It took him a moment to compose himself, the trembling dying down as he quelled the thoughts of what might have happened last night. The stress was stripping away at him, devouring his rationality and most every personality trait that seemed to stabilize him.   
  
Alana was right, he was unstable. He could hardly keep a hold on himself, and every time he witnessed the matrix of bloody flesh and the carnage of a crime, it resulted in a near-breakdown, a fleeing, and this time he had gone far over-board. The medications wouldn’t stem the occurrences of it. Nothing would. His gift was hindering to the point of where it was asphyxiating him. He felt more like a parasite than an asset to Crawford.

His gaze bore into the ornamental walls, and at that very moment he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Everything was overwhelming him. There was nothing that he could see solace in.

When the door creaked in resistance, he snapped out of the short-lived trance he had put himself in. In a demure fashion, he allowed himself to glance up at the suit-clad Hannibal Lecter, who merely stared back with a crease of a smile. That smile never truly reached his eyes, rendering his emotion completely unreadable.

Titillation crawled up his spine, but this he would not show.

“Ah, Will,” He began, “I see you’ve decided to stick around. We should discuss your predicament over lunch.” A stray hand smoothed over the front of Hannibal’s suit, the creases being smothered. The poise he showcased was so alien to Will, it was quite charming.

 As always, Hannibal was quick to prepare a meal of unmatched elegance. When they were finished with their lunch, Will finally spoke up despite himself. They were free of all distractions for the moment, so it seemed like an apt time.

“What happened last night? I woke up on your couch with not a single recollection of what happened,”

Hannibal allowed his hands to rest on the side of the table as his fork came down with a soft ‘tink’. Though they weren’t adjacent to each other, he interlocked eyes with Will. “When you arrived here, you were emotionally erratic. When you began to fluctuate between unconsciousness and consciousness, I administered a strong sedative. You were highly volatile and likely to lash out if I had not acted the way I did.”

The sangfroid and composure Hannibal exerted while addressing Will’s sanity set his teeth on edge. He frowned deeply and averted his eyes; the fact that he had been so kaleidoscopic with his emotions and had come here to attempt to remedy that was thoroughly distressing.

A hand crept up his forearm, a comforting gesture from his psychiatrist was now seen as affection or perhaps romance. The most carrying of all touches belonged to Hannibal, the ones that resonated in his few good dreams and linger in his thoughts.

Hannibal would have embraced him, but this didn’t seem to be the right time to explore that range of intimacy with him. He only subtly stroked his arm with his thumb, a reassuring smile plastered on his lips.

“You didn’t do anything in frenzy, and everything that happened will not be spoken of to anyone else. Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He retorted.

Will reached up, his fingers ghosting over Hannibals as he kept his eyes pinned to the ground. His breath hitched in his throat.

At that moment, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter entered a sort of senseless relationship that only consisted of a desire of a euphony of touch.  As Will grew more and more distant, and became more and more familiar with the concept of death, Hannibal would become the only safe harbor  where he wouldn’t have to restrain himself.

Will wasn’t stupid, though. Hannibal would soon unfold himself to Will, and their liaisons would soon be littered with truth. Truths that would tear poor William Graham apart. 


	3. This Place Used To Be A Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me comments on what you think about how it's going so far!

It another day began, but with much effort. Will forced himself to remove from a tangle of limbs and blankets, and his eyes held this sort of sleepless glassiness and were fraught with the cessation of attempted sleep. He had to polish off the quarrel in his head with gusts of water that pooled in his palms from the sink, his languid movements eased away slowly with liquid and cool. 

 

His dreams were only abyss’s now. Chasing the raven stag through endless recesses of his mind, in a place where his tongue was too course for words made of paper, and the silence was almost so still that one could merely breathe and it would cause echoes. 

 

The only place Will had a constant was with Hannibal, whom he had started to call ‘Hannibal’ instead of Doctor Lecter. He could only trust him. And Hannibal, despite this fact, was beginning to dig his fingers into the sinews of William’s mental state, and break apart the only stability left in the shell of a body Will had. 

 

There were far too many murderers, too many occurrences, and the Ripper’s killing had been piling up so rapidly that he knew he would have to catch him soon. Any human slips up. Killers get careless, sometimes they’ll leave a piece of hair behind, or even a wallet if the police got lucky. 

 

He felt compulsion in the displays that taunted him. Some sort of demand, and the only way to capture this kind of meticulous monster was to catch the tiger by the tail. 

 

Somehow, the pace of the kills slowed. It turned into months. The coming weeks were relatively uneventful, aside from the increase of closeness that Hannibal allowed the two to be. There were gentle glides of fingertips upon thighs, their faces got so close that their lips nearly ghosted across each other, and once even eye contact.

 

Hannibal’s eyes were hollow. They were like vacant homes, completely blank and void of turmoil, left untouched by emotion and other harmful things. He envied the way he concealed his emotions. Will thought eyes could tell all about a person, and that he could easily discern emotions, pasts, anything from a simple eye contact. He avoided eye contact for that very reason, but he stared into the eyes of Hannibal to search for something, anything, even a spark of joy. And he resurfaced with nothing. 

 

At that moment, he knew that Hannibal was hiding something from him. Something that he should’ve been paranoid about, let that emotion leech off of him like an parasite like he had done with so many people he’d once risked getting close to. But he did not. The very hinges of his heart hung on the idea that Hannibal wasn’t bad, wrong, unjust, and that everything he had shown him was completely true, completely reliable. He wanted the truth from someone, for once. 

 

And this he would force himself to believe until the moment Hannibal was, indeed, revealed to be a cannibal. At least his life wouldn’t succumb to monotony. 

 

One week, when coils of hands, masses of tension, and interwoven contacts were swarming the conversations between the psychoanalyst and the psychiatrist, something different happened. 

 

It began when Will let himself into Hannibal’s house in the early hours of the morning. It was roughly 2am, when the abode smelt like wood varnish and hints of wine. He knew Hannibal would not be asleep, for it nearly seemed that he never slept. He was always there when he needed him. Everything seemed abeyant, the lights were low, and shadows danced upon the walls in groves cast from the shutters. Will approached the normal lounge he reclined in,   watching the silhouettes of car headlights passing the blinds. 

 

“Hannibal!” He called, tracing the doorways perimeter with his eyes, hoping at any moment that his psychiatrist would come bustling through the door. But he rarely left, or came in at random instances. He more so hoped that Hannibal was in the house somewhere. He didn’t like the principle of people entering uninvited. He thought it was rude. 

  
He exhaled, starting for the door to the basement. The shadows were beginning to take forms of familiar things, things that scared him. He hoped that Hannibal was somewhere inside the house, for the idea of being alone to his devices made him uneasy. 

 

As he opened the door, he was greeted by noise. Sweet, loud noise. But not welcoming noise. It sounded as if meat was being hacked away. Tissue being torn, bones being broken. 

 

Will stiffened, daring to let out another call of his name. 

 

“Hannibal,” 

 

But this was a breath of a word, one that betrayed his composure and sent a shudder down the spine of the busy bee that was splitting the torso of a human man below. Guts were strewn along the plastic wrap that was carefully folded along the edges of his table. He was cleaving this man’s body for the best cut of meat. The filet mignon of the human, so to speak. His work was done hastily, though, but not without precision. 

 

It wasn’t as if he did not intend Will Graham to walk in on this suspicious activity, anyways. He wasn’t that unaware of the time.

 

“I’ll be up in a minute,”

There was a loud groan of a step, and Hannibal knew that Will was curious. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. But this cat was not ready to lay his eyes on the work that Hannibal was doing. The fine art that he was executing. Will wasn’t unhinged enough to understand the aesthetic value of severed limbs and minced livers. He needed to coddle him more. 

 

If he abandoned the meat for his appointment with Graham, it would spoil. He was in quite a dilemma. And he did enjoy his meat fresh. 

 

As Will’s foot made contact with another stair, he only saw a blur before Hannibal was before him. He was dressed as dapper as ever, but there was a blot of colour on Hannibal’s cheek. 

 

The first note that Will made was the fact that Hannibal’s eyes were dilated. This provoked a response from Will, a small baby-step backwards. 

 

“I could come at a different time, Doctor,” Will retorted, his face contorting to a sort of grimace, eyebrows creased back. He was worried. Fear flitted through his eyes. He knew more than he was expressing, and Hannibal knew. 

 

There was a small, curt shake of Hannibal’s head. He placed a hand on Will’s arm, his grip surprisingly gentle for a man who filets the skin off of the rude. The cuff of his suit jacket had a thick sanguine stain. This was a sign of bludgeoning. Will’s eyes hooded, the colour in his expression turning pallid. He felt his blood grow cold. 

  
“This is not a bad time, Will,” A sharp inhale from Graham as Hannibal’s other unoccupied hand creeps up to his shoulder, “I will make time for you. I was merely butchering meat down here for my next meal,” 

 

Will looked visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting as Hannibal’s proximity grew closer. “It’s 2 in the morning,” was all he could say between the intakes of breath and the holding of them. This was exciting to him, despite his outward semblance. Something different for a change. 

 

Their faces were close enough that he could feel his breath mingle with Hannibal’s. Something was very off about this moment. Standing on the steps of his basement, being approached with such an abrupt and intimate gesture. 

 

As hurried as he was to make this confrontation happen, he broke their contact, leaving an empty space of body heat before him that hung there. The doctor had taken the remaining steps upstairs, encouraging Will to follow him. And of course, with all thoughts of the dismembered torso that lay only meters away from him gone, he followed, silently hoping for more contact. 

 

He would dwell on the topic later. For the sake of a moment with his psychiatrist, he would retreat to the more peaceful and safe corners of his mind, instead of clashing with all the paranoid thoughts that would cloud his head. 

 

“I needed to filet this meat, or it would spoil,” A partially true statement, “By the morning, it would have been too rancid to enjoy. I would have to throw it out.” 

 

Will absently rubbed his thigh as he lowered himself onto a nearby chair, peering at Hannibal. He would combat the growing feeling of exhilaration until Hannibal acted upon this. As he stared with unbroken focus, he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it as he noticed Hannibal sauntering towards him. His eyes hit the floor. 

 

“Why are you here?” He inquired, arching a brow. 

 

“To look for answers,” 

 

The tension between the two was becoming more and more evident. The dry air stung Will’s lungs. He felt a feverish swelter about the room, something that wasn’t merely about temperature, but more about the enkindled arousal that he felt. He put a hand over his face, leaning his elbow against his knee as his eyes remained glued to the ground. 

  
“My dreams are -- ah,” He mulled over his statement, then opened his mouth again. “-- These nightmares, they’re beginning to take their toll on me. I don’t sleep much anymore. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to risk it. I see the stag. Walking. It’s everywhere, Hannibal, I...”

Will trailed off, eyes narrowing as he processed the corroding effects that these dreams were having. They were diminishing his desire to do anything. They were eating away at him. They were impairing him.

 

“Tell me more about these dreams.” 

 

Hannibal took several steps forward, taking a seat next to him. They were close again. A hand found its way onto his leg. It felt comforting, but his senses betrayed him. A shudder struck him. He knew that Hannibal felt that. He knew that Hannibal was aware of his own agonizing longing. 

 

“It normally starts with nothingness, and this endless chasing of this stag. Each step I make echos, each breath I struggle to make sounds like a scream. I can’t arrive at a fully formed sentence, but only could remain wordless. I look into the abyss, chasing this enigma with no reason, but as I follow it, I..” He pauses, swallowing hard enough that his adams apple bobs, “The path I follow becomes a display of corpses. At the end of the dream, I see you, I see..” 

 

His voice was growing more and more soft, his eyes wrought with collateral damage. He stared blankly for a moment, awaiting a response, but only getting eyes that asked him to continue his sentence. Just finish it. 

 

“..You. Everything is gone. There is not much else. Just you.” 

 

A hand lifted to his inner thigh, eliciting a tenseness. He averted his eyes, staring deeply at the wall as the hand only accelerated the desire that boiled beneath his skin. 

A rough grip against his chip is greeted with a surprised ‘huh?’ as his lips meet Hannibal’s in a swift motion. 

 

Eyes that were once cemeted to the wall now draw closed, the peacefulness engulfing him entirely. He enjoys it for a moment. Then, he resurfaces, snapping back to the complexity of the situation and the confusion that infects his mind. 

 

He knows now. He knows and he repeats it to himself, like a mantra. He won’t let this thought succumb to the silent and blur of desire. Everything was beginning to get blotted out, little by little, as Hannibal’s embrace tightened, sending them tumbling backwards. Hannibal was on top of him, impulsive, the most human that Will had ever seen him. 

 

The thought he tried to hold on was like trying to keep footing on endlessly shifting sands, trapped between wanting to break away and expose Hannibal as he truly was, or let himself be overtaken by a corruption that was swelling inside of him. 

 

Hands traveled, leaving fire in the wake of simple touches along his collarbones. He was screaming inside his head, feeling hands. Hands unzipping the front of his pants, hands tearing against his simple shirt, hands everywhere and anywhere.

The thoughts were gone.

 

The next moments orchestrated his downfall. A clear liquid, probably from a nearby commode, on experienced fingers that spread inside of him, things that he would soon try his best to forget. His eyes were foggy with wanting, his head knocked back to display the unbroken skin of his neck. Each thrust of his finger was responded to with a gasp. Until finally, a floodgate felt as if it was soon to burst. 

 

At the very moment he felt he would let this floodgate free, the fingers were removed. He didn’t question him, feeling rather vacant, but knowing that there was more to come. There was rustling, then he felt a sting as Hannibal pressed his length inside of him. He felt strangely uncomfortable, despite the searing heat and the desire to be closer to Hannibal. 

 

A minute in, something finally clicked. Then again. And again. He bit down on his tongue, gasps coming forth as he felt more and more. His heightened senses caught the creased eyebrows of Hannibal Lecter, the complete and utter concentration that never broke on his facade. 

 

He hated it. He stared at him with hooded eyes, and through the sweat and carnal desire, he still saw only one thing. Emptiness. A void where emotion was supposed to lay, in those eyes.

 

He felt the close, the pleasure inflating inside of him, until there was an abrupt feeling that ripped through him. 

The floodgates burst. He felt a hand caress his head as he orgasmed, his eyes wiring shut. The sweat between the two glistened. The overload of his senses that he had deprived himself from, and had not even wanted due to a constant feeling of fear, was his breaking point. 

  
He could not recall much else taking place after this, aside from a cautious whisper of ‘sorry’ before body heat left him.


End file.
